


Parchment Paper

by frooit



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies), Constantine (2005)
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Short, angels of death?, i want this to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:02:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frooit/pseuds/frooit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're smoking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parchment Paper

**Author's Note:**

> constantine pov

He'll repeat, continue to repeat, and repeat again, voice like scraped down chips of stone, whittled works at bone: _please_ (or at least mouth it, mock it). Blood's only so thick, water's only so clean, clear, etcetera, etcetera. He's really quite tired of the technicalities, and the Bible contradicting itself six ways to Sunday. So you see, you've got to get the irony. He isn't so far from it all, so down low or high up--not a favourite but still snatching at the potential--he'll still beg.

If you've done it once, you'll do it again.

It was around one of the last times he was in a church (he can't really say he hates those, not like he hates everything else, because he doesn't, not so much--he hates the _oh, we know where this one's going_ atmosphere--they always seem to know, they smell it, through and through, to the gut), this is where he saw the twins.

"Real class act." It isn't the cigarettes that does that to his voice now. Just all the same bitterness, the cryptic lime twist, really.

They're smoking. 

That can go several ways, but he prefers to stick with the obvious for the moment.

The impish little grin from the one on the right catches him for ten or seven steps. A little tempting.

He has a thought then... That he needs the strong personalities, the type that'll break your balls just as soon as suck 'em. They'll wilt, crawl away, cower from the darker shades of the world otherwise, blinded by nothing else but truth. These two have personality, brawn, naivety (always a catch), tattoos like smears of soot to hold the broken skin together, and something they don't know. He wasn't _just_ drawn to them because of the curls of grey, the endearing accents, the newness, the twilight surroundings. They're burning, on full-fucking-salute fire, if you will, and that's about as well as he can put it. As well as he'll ever put it. As well as glowing can describe a candle. Amen and done.

"Ya seem to be lost." All like one word; how they manage to subdue every sentence to seem. Spurts of vowels and teeth and the swish of the redorange to mark the end of a cigarette, lit by a hand both red and white from being who they are. The one speaking meant the phrase deeper, and he knows the guy's name without digging. Connor MacManus. Saint extraordinaire.

"I took a wrong turn somewhere."

The brother, Murphy--and he thought he was done with twins--drops his grin and his cigarette, nearly swaying. That's not too much of a stretch for an Irishman. What they're doing drunk in a church is between them and God, he'd say. Like moths to light one moment, and then it's the other way around: light to dark places. Constantine's a dark place, for one.

"I don't seem to recall asking for drinking buddies."

"Ahh, and you've got us anyway."

He doesn't like them immediately. He's never actually liked anything immediately, and that goes for the cigarettes as well. The past tense thing. First puff like choking on charcoal, but it comes with a linger. And that linger's now a noose slowly tightening, now inches from the ground, and sneering wider becomes the thing to do. Or was. Thank... a long time coming.


End file.
